


Mr. Sandman, Bring Me A Dream; Make Him The Cutest That I’ve Ever Seen

by DontOffendTheBees



Category: Dirk Gently's Holistic Detective Agency (TV 2016)
Genre: (kind of), Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Fantasy, Forbidden Love, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pre-Canon, Wendimoor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-14
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-04 14:15:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13366437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DontOffendTheBees/pseuds/DontOffendTheBees
Summary: “You're trespassing on our land, Trost,” Silas says, attempting to deliver the accusation with the same merciless cool that his mother would. It's difficult when the sound of the man’s silky voice wrapping around his name is proving highly distracting.“Please- call me Panto.” He lowers an arm and sweeps it before him, bending at the waist in a gracious bow. “An honour to make your acquaintance at last.”In which a love story to span the ages begins.Starring: my-Silas'unquenchable thirst for Panto Trost, gratuitous fantastical plants, and subtle(?) Shakespearian dick jokes.





	Mr. Sandman, Bring Me A Dream; Make Him The Cutest That I’ve Ever Seen

**Author's Note:**

> Do you guys know what this is? Do ya? DO YA? Well, first off, it's Panto and Silas- yay!- but secondly it's my 42ND FIC IN THIS FANDOM WHAAAAAAATTTTT?????
> 
> (actually there's probs more just in tumblr drabbles I haven't posted here, but if I don't post them here they're basically lost to the ages for me ngl)
> 
> Anyway, 42 is a BIG number (for the Adams-y connotations, and also the 'holy shit you've written 42 fics of this one show do you do anything else with your time at all???' connotations), and I've been hella conflicted about when to post it and which fic to choose. But today marks the final day of Pantlas Appreciation Week, and I love these boys with my whole entire heart, so it seemed only right!
> 
> You may notice this is a WIP- I generally don't like posting them as I have abandoned them (or gone two years between updates-YIKES) in the past, but I honestly have this one all planned out, I reckon I can get it done in the next month or so! This was almost it actually, but I just got so many more ideas I wanted to incorporate so it spun out a bit longer! If you want to wait til it's all posted to read just in case I understand, but if you read along with my updates I'd sure love to hear your thoughts! <3
> 
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy the adventures of these crazy kids, and enjoy watching them grow together as much as I'm enjoying writing it! <3

Patrol is one of the few duties Silas truly enjoys- a chance to get out from the confines of the castle, breathe in the fresh air, walk amongst the trees and feel at one with the wondrous Wendimoor nature. Even with Wygar’s heavy footsteps cracking twigs and scaring the wildlife away, it’s one of the few times Silas truly feels at peace.

But not even the gentle call of the distant pikka bird can put him at ease tonight.

He stomps through the undergrowth, fists clenched and jaw set against the emotions fighting their way up his throat. He doesn’t know whether he wants to curse or cry, but either could happen if he allows his lips to part.

“Silas!”

He flinches at the deep, distant voice. Wygar. He must have noticed him slipping away. He isn’t supposed to patrol alone- too clumsy, his mother says. Too weak. Helpless to defend himself, helpless to defend their land and family. She has made that _very_ clear- especially tonight, as she drunkenly lamented her useless son to everyone who would listen at the banquet. At _his_ banquet, thrown in _his_ honour.

Some birthday this was turning out to be.

The voice sounds again. Still distant- distant enough to be well out of eyeshot. Silas glances towards it, and walks steadfastly in the opposite direction. Petty and stupid? Absolutely. But Wygar had made _no_ effort to dispute his mother’s slander at the feast, and Silas is in no mood for further needling. Wygar can just keep on searching a little while longer.

For all his lack of natural stealth, he thinks he does a pretty good job of losing the search party. He ducks, weaves, breaks through foliage off the well-trodden path onto unfamiliar ground. There’s not as much forest around here as there used to be- most of it having been cleared for mining operations- but the land on the east is still fairly densely populated by thick, gnarled copses of prickle pines, and the gently displaced air by the whirly blooms covers his tracks well enough. But he doesn’t allow himself to slow down and catch a breath until he hears Wygar’s booming voice fade in the opposite direction- the warrior can be as sneaky as he is strong, and it won’t do to let his guard down.

When he finally feels safe he sighs, slumping back against the rough bark of the nearest pine and sinking to the ground. He hears the rasp of his waistcoat against the rough surface, and winces; Nanny Grunthos will surely not be best pleased by the pulled stitches[1]1\. But that’s a problem for later, he supposes. She’s hardly going to be the only one mad at him today.

Silas lets his head flop back against the tree trunk with a groan. _Heck,_ this was stupid. He’s only making things worse for himself. Wygar will tell mother of his disappearance, and by the time he comes back she’ll be hopping. She’ll chew him out for folly and disobedience, probably in front of whoever hasn’t left or passed out from fizzymead, and he’ll go to bed with a heavy heart and a sentence to two weeks of strict(er) supervision. Wygar will push him even harder in his training, and he’ll feel even dumber when he continues to make no improvement. It’s a mess. A big, dumb mess that he could’ve avoided if he’d just stopped and _thought_ for a second.

But he’s _tired_ of thinking. Seems like thinking is all he does, certainly the only thing he does _right._ He can’t fight, can’t hunt, can’t dance. Too weak, too soft, too clumsy. Thinking is one thing he _can_ do- no muscle-memory involved in daydreaming. He can overthink six impossible things before breakfast. And it’s entertaining, for sure, sometimes even enlightening but does it ever truly _help_ him? Does it guide his sword, or even his feet? No. All it does is make him _question._ Make him second-guess his moves, sympathise with his prey, sweat with nerves before he’s even put his first foot forward. No one would care if he stopped thinking altogether. His mother might even prefer it. Maybe he'd be a better swordsman, a better _son_ if he could only learn to let his hands do the thinking for him.

But then again, maybe he should figure out of he's managed to get himself lost in the woods before he thinks on the merits of _not_ thinking.

He stands up, digging his nails into the bark for support. It grazes his palm painfully, and he pats it in apology for the rough treatment. Prickle pines don't much like to be manhandled, neither do their fruits. He'd learned that the hard way. But there’s a delicious treat to be found at the core of every prickly pear if you only show them a gentle touch. The high, brittle branches rattle and whisper in satisfaction, soft and dry as a summer breeze.

A stark contrast to the sudden, startling _pop_ from a nearby bubble bush.

Silas freezes, heart in his throat. Unless he's very much mistaken, the bubble bushes aren't going to come close to popping season for another two months. And the pinweasels are still in hibernation. Few other creatures found in this region are heavy or sharp enough to make a dent, which can only mean…

He gulps, hand twitching to his sword. He should run. Wygar’s voice faded away not long ago, he can make it to him before whoever is hiding in the bush catches up to him. He surely stands a better chance of escaping an attacker than fighting one.

That’s what mother would say.

He bristles. No. He’s no coward. He is heir to the Dengdamor throne, baron prince of East Inglenook. He carries the honour of his family, of his people on his shoulders- and by Maker, he _will_ prove himself worthy of the mantle.

_Sniiiiiick-ck-ck-ck._

The sword slides from his scabbard with a rattle, he spins to face the popping noise with his arm outstretched and his blades a strong, heavy extension of it. “Halt where you stand!” he demands, trying to still the tremor in his arm. The metal hilts feel cold and awkward in his hand, but now is not the time to second-guess his course of action. “In the name of her majesty Lady Dengdamor I command you- show yourself!”

Silence follows his declaration, broken only by his own heavy breathing.

And then, shortly, a voice.

“Well, which is it?”

Silas blinks. “What?”

“Do you want me to halt where I stand, or show myself?” the voice asks, a teasing lilt to it. “I can’t possibly do both.”

The blood rushes to Silas face. Drat. He hasn’t even seen his adversary’s face yet and already he’s been wrong-footed. “The- the second one. _Then_ the first one. Halt where I can see you, is, is what I meant to say.”

“As you wish.”

Another _pop_ sounds, followed by a series of squeaks as something parts the bubbles. A hand, large and slender, emerges. Followed by an arm, clad in fine, billowy white linen, then a shoulder, and then-

Silas’ heart skips a beat.

Emerging gracefully from the bubble bush is the most beautiful man he’s ever laid eyes upon.

Blue eyes, clear and bright as the sky, find his from beneath a long, gossamer curtain of rosy hair, soft and pink as though spun from the finest cotton candy by a master confectioner. His skin is pale but sun-kissed and soft, framing a sculptural bone structure, high, healthy cheeks and a strong chin. It is a face that tells of hearty affluence, but also of hard work and a heart as strong as his broad, calloused hands.

Hands that are currently raised in seemingly mock surrender as those startling eyes scan Silas head to toe with a thinly veiled look of amusement.

“Will that be all?” he asks smoothly.

Silas’ thoughts finally catch up to his observations. Pink hair, farmer's hands, and an air of insufferable superiority. Of course. “You're a Trost,” he says accusingly.

“Indeed,” the man confirms with a dignified nod. “And you're Silas Dengdamor.”

“You're trespassing on our land, Trost,” Silas says, attempting to deliver the accusation with the same merciless cool that his mother would. It's difficult when the sound of the man’s silky voice wrapping around his name is proving highly distracting.

“Please- call me Panto.” He lowers an arm and sweeps it before him, bending at the waist in a gracious bow. “An honour to make your acquaintance at last.”

 _Panto Trost._ The only son of Lord Jeppum, unless Silas is very much mistaken. His heart gallops like a stallion- he's heard whispers in the kingdom of the man's skill with the sword. Suddenly the weapon in his own hand feels flimsy. He keeps it drawn nonetheless, though with the way his hand shakes he's surprised it doesn't wobble like a saw blade. “You're trespassing,” he repeats, keeping his chin squared as best he can. “You will stand before the baroness and explain yourself.”

“Will I?” Panto smiles, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“...Y-yes?”

Panto raises his eyebrows.

Silas clears his throat, and straightens his arm. “Yes,” he repeats without the rising inflection, gesturing with his sword “You will.”

“That's hardly necessary,” Panto says, seeming frustratingly unfazed by the gleaming scissors pointed squarely at his chest. “I can assure you I meant no harm in coming here- lower your weapon and I'll be on my way. Surely we needn't bug the fair Lady Dengdamor with this misunderstanding?”

“Then perhaps you'd like to tell me why you _are_ here?”

Panto responds with silence and a sheltered look. Just as he thought he might. His silence speaks volumes- speaks of a man with nothing to say and everything to hide.

“I won't say it again,” Silas says, jaw set. “Come with me or I'll-”

“Or you'll what?”

“Or I shall run you through where you stand.”

“And I can't convince you to resolve this any other way?”

Silas’ hand tightens on the hilts. He doesn’t like to fight, nor does he like his chances of winning against a swordsman of Panto’s caliber. But allowing a Trost to slip through his fingers on a day like today would surely be the final insult. “No.”

“Well, then,” Panto sighs, lowering his hands. “If you insist…”

_Sniiiick._

Panto’s sword is unsheathed in a flash, blades well-worn but polished to a gleam, and no doubt sharpened to deadly precision.

The fight is over before it's begun.

Silas barely even catches the motion as Panto quickly and efficiently (and yet somehow, still flamboyantly) disarms him, sending his scissors clattering to the earth a few feet away with an underwhelming clatter before pointing his own sword, straight and true and steady as a rock, squarely at Silas’ neck.

His breath catches, eyes wide as he stares death in the face down the blades of a burnished sword. As death stares right back, cool and calculating and far, _far_ more handsome than death has any right to be, poised to lunge and land the killing blow.

But Panto Trost just looks at him, head tilted consideringly, and after a long moment, lowers his weapon.

“Contrary to the lies spread by your family,” he says, voice low and verging on dangerous. “A Trost cares not for needless bloodshed.”

And he turns his back, like Silas is below his notice. Like he’s _nothing._

 _You are_ nothing-

His fists clench.

_A disgrace on this family-_

_A weakling-_

_A_ loser-

“Trost!”

The ferocity, the force in his voice surprises even him.

Panto turns to look, brows lifted in curiosity.

Silas lunges for his sword, fumbles it back into his grip, and points it again at the irreverent man. “Face me, bozo!”

Panto’s brows furrow. Silas thinks he sees him silently mouth _bozo_ to himself, as if in confusion, but he doesn’t give himself time to think about it before he’s lunging forward, blade arcing through the air towards Trost’s throat.

Or at least, that’s where he _aims_ to make the arc fall. In practice, he falls rather short and merely slices a thin, low branch off of a nearby prickle pine. But he recovers quickly, righting himself and mentally sending his apologies to the tree before pouncing again on the bewildered Trost.

But Panto sees him coming this time, and though his aim is truer he is thwarted by the _clang_ of metal as their swords clash, Panto’s flying up to catch his in a heartbeat.

Not to be deterred, Silas swings again. And again. Slashing frantically even as Trost deflects every blow with ease. If he cannot win with skill, he shall win with perseverance- wear him down, wait for an opening. A few times Panto knocks the sword clean from his hands, and every time Silas dives to pick it up without a second thought. Surrender is not an option. _Failure_ is not an option.

After a while, though, Panto seems to tire of the repetition.

With a look that is at once amused and apologetic, he deflects Silas’ blade one last time, and backflips neatly out of reach. His hand flies to his belt, unclips a small wooden circle, and flicks it like a discus.

The yo-yo darts out, quick as a kamokameleon’s tongue, and wraps around Silas’ sword, snatching it from the air before it even has a chance to touch the ground. With a flick of his wrist, the yo-yo snaps back to his hand, Silas’ sword with it, and between one breath and the next Panto is suddenly holding both their swords. Before Silas has a chance to react Trost is spinning; a precise, balletic motion that carries his heel on a smooth curve through the air and sends it slamming forcefully into Silas’ chest.

He falls like a domino.

Silas hits the ground with a _thud,_ his breath racing out on impact, and the same foot that knocked him down comes to rest on his ribs, pressing lightly but confidently and making it clear that the fight is, beyond any stretch of the imagination, _won._

He looks up, and Panto Trost looks down. But not with the smugness Silas would have expected; rather with an unreadable expression that Silas hasn’t the faintest idea how to interpret.

Silas tamps down his panic, his overwhelming certainty that _this is the end,_ and meets it with determination.

If he is to die, he will _not_ die a coward.

Maybe then his family can be proud of him for _something._

Panto does not flinch or flicker in his glare, only observes, emotions still held carefully under lock and key.

And then he flicks his trailing hair back over his shoulder, and smiles slightly.

“You fight bravely, Dengdamor,” he says, voice as light as his smile. “But stupidly. Though there is honour in your effort, there is none in your defeat. At least, not for me.”

He pauses, considering. Then he flips Silas’ sword in hand, taking a hold of the blades and holding the hilts out towards him, as if in invitation.

“If a fight is what you wish, I will happily oblige,” he says, his smile taking on a hint of mischief. “But only when you are skilled enough to face me. I take no pleasure in easy wins.”

Silas blinks, eyeing the sword warily as if it might lash out and bite him. “You… you _don’t_ want to kill me?”

Panto snorts out a laugh, shaking his head. “I never _wanted_ to kill you, Silas- you simply made it rather hard to negotiate a non-violent solution. But if a death at the hands of a warrior is what you desire, I shall give you one, one day. But only when such a victory is earned- I fight first for family, then for honour, and I see no honour in slaying one so fundamentally disadvantaged as yourself.”

 _Fundamentally-?!_ Silas sputters, cheeks aflame. “I am _not-!”_

“No offence meant, my prince- we all started somewhere!” Panto says, with a smile that’s far too attractive for one so horrendously _obnoxious._ “But until you and I are more evenly matched, I can show only mercy.” He pushes Silas’ sword towards him again, prompting. “It’s a code of conduct, you understand. Knight’s honour.”

Silas glowered, but took a hold of the sword hilts. “You’re no knight.”

“Perhaps not officially,” Panto smiles, pulling Silas to his feet with his sword. “But it can only be a matter of time.”

Silas staggered to gain his own footing as soon as he was able, snatching his sword back out of Panto’s hands huffily. “I don’t think they let _doofuses_ join their ranks.”

“True, but in my experience they make an exception for the royal ones,” Panto rebuffs effortlessly, sheathing his own sword with a smile. “Which is fortunate for you, indeed. You have _much_ to learn. We must begin as soon as possible!”

“‘We-’?”

“Meet me here, tomorrow, at sunrise,” Panto declares, sweeping his hair back over his shoulder. “There isn’t time to waste- if we get right to your training, perhaps you and I can duel before the year is out.” He looks Silas up and down. “...Though I doubt it.”

“What do you mean ‘training’-?!”

“Until tomorrow!”

Silas opens his mouth to protest further, but Panto has already turned and begun his progress back to whatever hole or shrubbery he scrambled out of to make Silas’ life a misery.

“Oh,” he says, turning back one last time with one hand already parting the bubbles. He smiles at Silas in a way that makes his stomach flutter.

Flutter?

No, _churn._ Because it’s _gross._ That’s what that is.

“And don’t be tardy. I find the dawn is the best time for sword training- a new day, a fresh outlook.” He winks, and Silas’ heart stops. “And the light, I believe, can be rather flattering.”

And just like that, he’s gone, leaving Silas staring at the space where he stood with frustration and confusion and the feeling that the evening air was a lot _stuffier_ than it had been mere minutes beforehand.

...What the _fudge?!_

**Author's Note:**

> 1 Even at twenty-one, Silas has the common sense to live in fear of Nanny Grunthos’ wrath. Though she no longer possesses the power to make him sit three extra hours of literature study, she still exerts more than enough authority to keep him as a captive audience for her own poetry readings, which are in themselves a form of sensory torture.  [ return to text ]  
> 


End file.
